


Envy All You Please

by i_am_op



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 09:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_op/pseuds/i_am_op
Summary: Erik is alone. Alone in this cold, empty cage with no one. He wants Raoul to return.[Raoul is part of the circus Erik was in AU]





	Envy All You Please

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah, im fresh out of ideas of protege, my other fic, so have another stupid fic. was gonna be longer but got lazy. enjoy

Raoul is a spoiled, talent-less boy, who does not deserve to be pampered, does not deserve kisses on his stupid handsome face of his from his mother. He has the whole world at his fingertips, just for being born from a rich family. Erik hates and envies his very existence. 

The son of Monsieur Changy, the owner of the circus, and who Erik despises. Like father and son and which he likes neither of. 

Erik is nine and has lot of hate for one of a tiny stature. He goes to sleep with whip marks for misbehavior and never had he once known what kisses or hugs feels like. Just the cold, unfeeling metal of his cage. The only thing he has is music and a paper bag from his mother. For his face. 

His ugly face, the reason for being in this hellhole. He hates it, he hates Raoul and his stupid smiles, and he hates this circus. He hates the people who ogle at his face, the ballerinas who look pretty and act hideously, the whispers among everyone. 

And himself. He hates himself. His inability to do anything, but sit and seethe in his anger, bathe in his vengeance. He idly twiddles in thumbs and sits in the cage. This helpless part of him, he despises. 

The only thing he knows how to do is perform. 

So Erik performs.

He plays until his fingers ache, he composes until early dawn, and he ignores the curiously disturbed faces as they look at his deformity. They do not matter to him, at the moment, only music does. Something so beautiful created by his ugly hands. 

Music is the only thing he has in this lonely, dread place. The god awful loneliness, a single thin moth-eaten blanket as his only source of comfort. He is an animal. 

Erik sits in his cage, his knees pulled towards his chest. It feels suffocating here, he pulls at the metal bars with his skinny twig arms, but the cage seemed to be a permanent fixture, no matter how uncomfortable or how dirty it was He could hear his pulse from his brain, a cold chill despite the heat, and shivers. Nervously, he thumbs the music sheets underneath his hands, trepidation filling him.

He shivers and shivers, as if he had sprayed with the water of the north, but despite that, he sweats.

 _A fever_ , he thinks hazily. _I'm coming down with a fever._

He's had heat strokes, fevers, and vomit coming out of his mouth before. He will recover, he reassures his uneasy mind. He squirms uncomfortably in his spot as he feels another chill. 

He abandons the sitting position he has once been in and slowly curls up in a fetal position and grips himself tighter. His arms are the only warmth he had ever felt. 

Erik's breath gusts over his face and it feels hot against his probably flushed face. He shivers some more and watches as the world turns dizzy and cloudy in his vision. Shutting his eyes tightly, he hopes sleep will help him feel better. 

The world around him disappears and he falls into a deep slumber that it only interrupted when he awakes from warm hands softly brushing against his face.

It feels nice and he almost loses himself against it, leans towards it even. But the fact that he had never experienced any soft hands other than his own rough ones makes him jerk wide awake. Confused, he blearily opens his eyes. The light that hits his eyes makes them squeeze shut again, but eventually, he keeps them open enough to focus on the source of the hands.

It's... He doesn't know who to expect. Perhaps an elderly patron who had taken pity of him, but definitely not Raoul, who was frowning slightly as he attempted to concentrate on wiping away the sweat with a cool wet rag. 

Erik could only stare in quiet surprise as he watched Raoul work. His mouth stayed shut and few beats passed with silence and Raoul wiping away the sticky sweat. Clearing his throat hesitantly, Raoul tore his eyes away from his work and gazed into Erik's own eyes.

They were a beautiful baby blue and Erik hated them. 

"You alright? You had a bit of a..." Raoul trailed off and gesticulated, rag flapping as he did so. It was then, with a closer look, that Erik realized it was not any plain old rag, but a fancy handkerchief, gold stitching stitched onto it, reading with elegant loopy font: R.C.

It stood for Raoul Changy.  

Erik felt the fresh flush of hate pour into him once again. Who did this boy think he was, the rich taking poor on the less fortunate? Erik almost chuckled in disbelief. He was fine by himself, with Raoul's pity or not. 

"What are you doing here?" Erik asked. His tone must've been more aggressive than he anticipated, as Raoul winced slightly at his words. He anxiously played with his ends of the handkerchief, slightly pouting. "I only wanted to help."

"I don't need it," Erik bit out, too tired to glare, but definitely doing so in his head. He watched as Raoul's expression turned into one of annoyance. His face had turned red and Raoul determinedly brought his handkerchief towards his face, as if in a threatening pose. 

"Well, you're getting my help, I don't care what you need," And with that Raoul stuck his handkerchief to his sticky, mangled hair that was drenched in sweat.

Erik, still irritated, chose not to say anything as he did. He didn't enjoy it, he muttered angrily in his head, but the hand felt nice and Raoul hadn't said anything about his face yet, so he allowed him to stay. 

As he shifted slightly into a comfortable position, he was surprised to find that gone was the thin blanket that had moth bites all over it, but instead he had been draped in a warm jacket that looked as if it were made out of all things expensive. Must be Raoul's, he thought, bitterly. 

"Do you want anything to eat? I'll have to sneak some food if you do want any," Raoul says. His hand has stopped moving now, but it was still nestled in Erik's hair. 

Sneak? He had not realized it had turned nightfall, the candlelights illuminating brightly enough to fake daylight. Or perhaps, he was still in a fevered state to not notice. He was hungry, the last scraps of food he had seemed like forever ago, but, as much as he detested to think, he liked the warmth that was resting on his head and he didn't want it to go. It was calming and nothing he had ever experienced. 

"No, I'm not," He managed to mumble, half drowsy from the lull of sleep once again. 

Raoul's brows furrow in worry and Erik wonders when was the last time people ever looked at him in worry. "Mother says food is good to get rid of fevers. Are you sure?" He questions. 

Erik thinks of Raoul being sick and being nursed to health lovingly by caretakers and his mother. He thinks of his own nights, delirious and fever riden as he attempts to bring himself warmth. It annoys him. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" 

"Father said you had a fever, so I wanted to help," Raoul replies. "Mind you, if he find me here, he'll surely kill me. He wanted you to sleep off the fever, but I thought some company would be nice."

Erik wonders where his company was, when he had been four, five, six, seven, eight years old and alone in his cage.

"Go back," Erik mumbles. 

Instead of leaving, Raoul determinedly ignores him and starts spewing some random talk about Paris and the bright lights, proclaiming it to be the most beautiful city in not just France, but the _world_.

"I don't care," Erik says, but the tone is a little lighter, enough to not be taken seriously by either of them. 

Raoul talks about how much he enjoyed Erik's music. He asks Erik questions.

And eventually Erik answers. He talks, he argues, and he does a pale imitation of a smile, but it's more than he's ever done. Minutes pass and turn into hours until the candles have gone out and there's only one candle faintly lit, which Raoul picks up and gets ready to take his leave.

Getting up, Raoul dusts himself and gives Erik a smile. "Well, I better get go--" 

"Stay," Erik croakes out without thinking. The only thing he had been thinking about was the absense of warmth. He regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth and he's sure he has a horrified expression on his face plastered.

But Raoul says nothing about his horrifed expression and instead visibly beams, looking as if Erik had handed him the world instead of asking him a stupid request. 

"Okay." And he stays, plopped down right next to Erik, bid him a good night, before promptly falling asleep. 

He wakes up and Raoul is asleep next to him, clutching the thin blanket that he owned in an attempt to warm himself up. Erik thinks to himself that if Monsieur Chagny were to find Raoul here, they would both be in trouble. 

Using his arms to hoist himself up, Erik feels Raoul's jacket fall from his shoulders and crumple at his legs. It still looks expensive as ever, but this time, Erik can't find it in himself to be angry about such expensive things Raoul owned.

* * *

 

Raoul, despite Erik's insistence, comes to his cage, armful of sandwiches and a hopeful look in his eyes. 

Sandwiches are a delicacy that Erik had never truly experienced. He grunts a noise akin to a thank you and devours the sandwich. 

When Erik looks at Raoul, the hopeful eyes are replaced with pleased eyes and he wonders if the sandwich was some sort of test, but it doesn't matter. Raoul's presence isn't as aggravating as it used to be, almost comforting, and his stomach was full. 

"Did you make any new music?" He asks him eagerly as soon as Erik finishes the sandwich.

It had been a few days and Raoul has came to him with cheerful chatter and peppering him with questions about his music. 

Raoul does not question his face. He doesn't stare at his face. He looks at his eyes and the only thing he does stare at is Erik's hands on the piano in awe, as he plays his composition. 

Erik does not know what to make of him. 

Other people pity or despise him. They look at his face. They only look at his face, really. His music is just a side attraction and he feels naked underneath the scrunity of eveeyone's eyes. He hstes them, despises them even. 

But Raoul is none of those things and he makes him so, so confused.

"What're you waiting for?" Raoul shouts from his seat behind the piano. "I wanna hear it!"

* * *

 "Buddying up with ugly here?" The lion tamer remarks, giving a mocking look towards Erik. "Better not be playing favorites." He goes for a teasing comment, but it backfires as Raoul's face twists in anger at his words.

" _He's not ugly_."

The lion tamer pulls his hands up, in a mock-surrender and apologizes, rather hastily and without any real sentiments behind it, before stalking off, but that does not bother Erik. He's use to it.

But what made him utterly stunned to the paint of being speechless was Raoul's anger and comments, for him. He could only look at the blonde boy, who was mumbling underneath his breath at the lion tamer's impoliteness. 

It was the first time that someone had been mad, not at him, but for him. Raoul seemed to be his first for most things, it seemed. The first to worry for him, to care for him, to make him happy. 

His lips twisted upwards despite himself, unable to contain his joy. His first smile. Raoul stopped his spiel midway, to exclaim in surprise, "You smiled."

He schooled his expression into one of a frown. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did! I saw it."

 


End file.
